{"id":2061,"date":"2014-05-06T18:50:03","date_gmt":"2014-05-07T01:50:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=2061"},"modified":"2015-05-25T14:37:28","modified_gmt":"2015-05-25T21:37:28","slug":"urbane-martini","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=2061","title":{"rendered":"Urbane Martini"},"content":{"rendered":"

Light scatters through frail leaves in bay<\/span>
\n windows. A band of smog-softened sun<\/span><\/p>\n

edges along the chaise longue.\u00a0A jewel<\/span>
\n ignites when beams reach the bottle<\/span><\/p>\n

and I raise my eyes to hear you say:<\/span>
\n The past<\/em>\u00a0is a feeble attempt at the present<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

This former\u00a0Weltstadt<\/em>\u00a0is on the ebb.<\/span>
\n We must soon pack our books and move on.<\/span><\/p>\n

But not yet.\u00a0 We both need another.<\/span>
\n With any luck we\u2019ll be in bed before<\/span><\/p>\n

this digests,\u00a0fake moonlight from the neons<\/span>
\n falling\u00a0across our shoulders and chests.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

I met Douwe\u00a0Ernsting at the bar o<\/em>n a crossing of the <\/em>Alexandr Pushkin<\/span><\/a><\/em> from Montre<\/em>al to Le Havre in Autumn, 1972. Those were the days!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

A refugee of sorts from puritanical post-war Amsterdam, Don, the name he preferred, was manager of the old Mansfield Book Mart<\/span><\/a><\/span>, famous for its special collections, and went on to serve as Art Librarian at the Canadian Centre for Architecture<\/span><\/a><\/span>.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

After the nine day crossing we both settled in Paris and for the next year regularly\u00a0rendezvous’d in one or another watering hole on the Left Bank, at La Flore when there were seats free. We would drink until they gave us last call and started cleaning up. After that the m\u00e9tro was always closed. Since Don lived in a hotel in the Sixth, this\u00a0posed less of a problem for him than me, tucked away in a garret in the far Fourteenth. Suffice it to say, I always managed to get home, though <\/em>near each month’s end when cash for a cab ran out I had to weave a wobbly way down the rue de Rennes to Montparnasse and on to the rue de Pernety. Many things I saw, those early mornings, tasting <\/em>le vin des rues.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Back in Montreal, Don and I kept up our routine\u00a0of cocktails and bookish talk. His friendship held down one corner of the contradictory life I pursued\u00a0in those years, torn between French and English and among\u00a0left-wing politics<\/span><\/a><\/span>, my lagging PhD on African literature and the finer things of life, books, music, art\u00a0and the culinary self-indulgence he encouraged and himself enjoyed.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

If I could, I would hop abroad the Pushkin at the drop of a hat and head straight\u00a0to the bar to have a drink with him. R.I.P.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>
The old Soviet ocean liner, Alexandr Pushkin<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
<\/span><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Light scatters through frail leaves in bay windows. A band of smog-softened sun edges along the chaise longue.\u00a0A jewel ignites when beams reach the bottle and I raise my eyes to hear you say: The past\u00a0is a feeble attempt at the present. This former\u00a0Weltstadt\u00a0is on the ebb. We must soon pack our books and move … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Urbane Martini”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

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